^0  g\o 

5  't 


V 


if 


A   SHADOW    PASSES 


SHADOW  PASSES 


BY 


EDEN   PHILLPOTTS 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

1919 


Ao/^ 


COPYRIGHT 


'  O  beloved  Pan  and  all  ye  other  gods  of  this  place, 
grant  me  to  become  beautiful  in  the  inner  man,  and 
that  whatever  outward  things  I  have,  I  may  be  at 
peace  with  those  within." 

The  PHiTiDRUs. 


THE   RIVERSIDE   PRESS   LIMITED.    EDINBURGH 


A  Shadow   Passes 


CLOUD  shadows  sweep  over  the  Moor  with  wings 
that  are  grey  or  nearly  black,  blue  or  violet-purple, 
according  to  the  seasons  and  quality  of  air  and  sun- 
shine. On  stormy  days  the  case  is  altered  and  out  of 
gloom  there  break  beams  to  fly  over  the  darkness  of 
earth,  like  golden  birds.  The  shadow  and  shaft  of  light 
both  serve  to  bring  out  detail  in  the  wilderness  ;  and 
while  to-day  passages  of  shade  reveal  the  integument 
of  heath  and  stone,  or  fling  up  the  outline  of  a  hill 
among  others  lost  in  light,  to-morrow  a  sun-flash  is 
apter  to  do  these  things  and  paint  pictures  set  in 
cloudy  frames.  Light  and  shade  both  play  their 
part  in  revelation  of  reaUties ;  and  while  most  men 
and  women  steadfastly  suppose  that  only  the  light  of 
success  is  needful  to  uncover  the  beautiful  truth  of 
them,  it  may  be  that  they  are  mistaken  and  the  shadow 
of  failure  would  better  do  so. 


«?b 


STANDING  under  a  beech-tree,  waiting  for  the  rain 
to  pass,  I  marked  a  ghost  of  vanished  carving  on 
the  grey  bole.     The  tree  had  laboured  to  repair  her 
wound,  but  it  was  graven  deep,  and  still  one  might  read 
A  5 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

"  J.B.-N.W.,"  surrounded  by  the  shadowy  outline  of  a 
heart.  May  Jack  and  Nelly  be  stiU  as  near  together 
and  one  in  heart  as  their  initials  on  the  old  beech. 


15b 


BETTER  than  many  more  melodious  singers,  I 
love  the  monotonous  music  of  the  goatsucker.  He 
has  but  two  notes,  and  after  sustaining  the  higher  for 
thirty  seconds,  or  more,  drops  half-a-tone  upon  the 
lower  and  so  concludes  his  burst  of  song.  He  loves  the 
twilight,  for  his  great  eyes  hardly  endure  fuU  day,  and 
he  haunts  the  stony  places  in  the  fern  and  open  scrub 
at  forest  edge.  His  long-drawn  purr,  rising  and  falling 
and  throbbing  through  the  dusk  of  June,  is  precious  in 
itself,  and  also  because  it  wakens  remembered  vigils 
with  lonely  dingles  in  the  gloaming,  with  still  pools 
wherein  stars  were  mirrored,  and  with  the  faces  of  grey 
stone-heaps  fading  into  darkness.  Such  little  shrines 
and  sanctities  are  charged  at  crepuscule  and  moth- 
time  with  great  solemnity. 


«Sb 


AN  ant  attempted  to  drag  a  fragment  of  leaf  up 
the  side  of  a  quartz  crystal.  Eight  times  she  fell, 
and  then  went  round.  One  never  knows  what  one 
can  do  until  one  tries ;    but  it  is  often  well  to  give 

6 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

oneself  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.    A  precept  for  middle 
age — not  youth. 

TWO  cocks  were  crowing  against  each  other  in 
the  hour  before  dawn,  and  one  heard  their  futile 
challenges  thrown  backward  and  forward  through  the 
darkness.  How  little  they  knew  that  somebody  was 
listening  to  them  and  weighing  the  sincerity  of  their 
voices.  How  little  we  know  who  may  be  listening  to 
us  and  weighing  our  sincerity.  If  we  did,  perhaps  we 
should  not  crow  so  often,  or  so  loud. 

«5e 

NO  light  promised  at  sunset,  yet  just  before  hope 
died,  one  great  saffron  streak  broke  the  western 
gloom  and  the  dripping  winter  trees  at  forest  side 
caught  the  flash  upon  their  boughs  and  wove  it  into 
a  glittering  net  of  amber  and  gold.  The  signal  and 
response  were  instantaneous ;  then  the  sunset  gleam 
vanished ;  but  the  watchful  trees  had  marked  it  and 
achieved  another  beauty.  A  great  maxim  :  to  lose  no 
chance  of  achieving  beauty. 

ON  the  dead  thorns  at  the  foot  of  a  furze-bush 
hung  a  silvery  object,  that  looked  like  a  wisp  of 
spun  glass  blown  by  the  wind.  Here  a  snake  had 
wound  himself,  that  the  prickles  might  catch  his  slough 

7 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

and  help  him  to  escape  from  it.  He  had  wriggled  clear 
of  his  old  skin,  to  shine  in  the  olive  and  brown  and 
ebony  of  his  new  coat.  Thorns  are  helpful  things  if 
you  want  to  slough  outgrown  garments  of  prejudice, 
opinion  or  habit ;  but  the  philosophers  who  provide 
them  often  use  their  prickles  without  any  anaesthetic. 
Only  the  artist  hides  his  thorn  under  beauty  and 
laughter,  as  do  the  fragrant  golden  furzes. 

It  follows  that  humanism  is  most  effective  in  the 
artist's  hand — a  fact  capable  of  massive  proof  were 
any  so  rash  as  to  deny  it. 


^ 


IN  the  white  dawn  light  an  otter  beaded  across 
a  deep  pool.  He  swam  invisible,  and  a  chain  of 
bubbles,  that  burst  in  the  chill  flash  of  morning, 
marked  his  hidden  way.  I  was  doubly  glad  :  to  see 
the  otter  beading,  and  to  know  that  hounds  met  on 
another  river. 

THERE  is  a  little  forest  of  dwarf  oak-trees  in  the 
Moor,  perched  upon  a  stony  hill.  So  small  are  they 
that  ling  and  whortle  climb  their  arms  ;  lowly  woodrush 
and  fern  stand  sure-footed  in  the  green  moss  that 
drips  from  their  boughs.  A  sage,  having  studied  these 
elfin  trees  and  counted  their  length  of  years,  let  it  be 
known  that  the  acorns  they  bore  were  sterile.     The 

S 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

wood  contained  seedlings  of  various  ages,  and  those 
fruits  that  earth  had  not  fulfilled  went  to  the  crops  of 
the  wood-pigeons  and  the  stomachs  of  little  mice ; 
but  since  the  wise  man  declared  these  acorns  unprolific 
it  was  long  beheved  and  is  even  so  reported  still. 

Thus  we  credit  the  false  even  while  we  bark  our 
shins  on  the  true,  being  metaphysical  creatures  and 
sycophants  to  a  man  before  a  prosperous  lie. 


«b 


WHEN  the  kingfisher  catches  a  trout,  he  uses  the 
whole  of  himself  as  a  weapon  and  drops  into 
the  stream  like  a  little  dagger  set  with  opals.  His 
beak  is  the  blade  and  his  body  the  haft.  He  cannot 
swim,  but  rising  from  his  stroke,  beats  hard,  with  short, 
strong  wings,  and  ascends  to  his  perch  on  a  tree  root, 
or  overhanging  ledge  of  stone,  with  the  wriggling  prey 
in  his  bill. 

^> 

A  WITHERED  wisp  of  a  woman  was  picking 
whortleberries  among  the  grey  rocks  on  the  heath. 
Life  had  bent  her  to  the  task  as  it  seemed  and  she 
plucked  away  among  the  wiry  scrub  laden  with  black 
fruit.  Her  wrinkled  fingers  were  stained  to  purple. 
"  Hurts  be  picking  well,  master,"  she  said. 
"  So  I  see,  mother ;  and  how  much  will  you  get  for 
your  basket  ?  " 

9 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

"  Ninepence  by  evening  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  It's  worth  while  I  dare  say." 

"  It  helps  my  grandson's  beer,"  she  explained.  "  He 
keeps  me." 

So  the  long  day's  work  will  run  down  a  thirsty 
young  throat  in  a  few  more  hours  ;  but  she  was  cheer- 
ful and  contented. 

«5b 


A  FROG,  with  laborious  propulsion  from  his  hind 
legs,  heaved  up  on  to  a  tussock  of  blue  grass 
above  a  pool.  He  shone  with  well-being  and  was 
striped  yellow  and  black,  while  his  eyes  had  a  spark 
of  ruby  in  them. 

Seeing  me  and  marking  an  object  unlike  the  forms 
of  sheep  and  cattle  familiar  to  him,  he  stopped  to 
meditate  before  leaping  into  the  water  as  he  intended. 
This  accidental  pause  served  him  well,  for  a  large  fly 
brought  up  suddenly  on  a  blade  of  grass  within  reach. 
His  tongue  twinkled  and  the  fly  was  gone. 

Thus  often  may  strangers  unconsciously  do  one 
another  a  good  turn,  from  the  accident  of  circumstance. 


iSb 


WHEN  children  run  upon  the  Moor,  they  seldom 
look  much    farther    than    the  ground  at  their 
feet,  for  there  their  treasures  lie.     When  the  old  come 

10 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

hither,  they  gaze  far  off  into  the  hills  and  upon  the 
sky  above  them. 


A  PLACE  breathes  its  own  essence  and  they  who 
dwell  within  the  aura  often  know  it  not  at  all. 
The  cairn  upon  the  hill  and  the  cloud  upon  the  cairn  ; 
the  river  winding  shadow-cast,  like  a  leaden  snake, 
in  the  valley ;  the  rain  and  the  west  wind  ;  the  byre, 
the  shippon  and  the  still,  noontide  house-place — 
these  wake  no  note  in  the  soul  of  the  native  sons. 
They  pass  to  and  fro,  and  stare  sightless  on  the 
familiar  earth  and  often-trodden  ways.  Of  this  wild 
spirit  they  are  and  know  it  not,  nor  guess  their  steadfast 
hearts  and  mother  wit  were  nursed  at  granite  nipples, 
very  meet  to  nurture  granite  men. 

It  is  upon  returning  to  their  cradles  after  long  absence, 
that  Moor  folk  perceive  the  pith  and  marrow  whence 
they  sprang.  Then  they  acknowledge  it  according  to 
the  measure  of  their  intelligence  and  sentiment. 


II 


The   Milk-maid's  Song 

ANOTHER  morn  doth  paint  the  skye, 
Dew  pearle  is  on  the  grasse, 
A  blessed  lark  sings  up  on  high 
To  see  the  black  night  passe. 
With  blushes  red  the  rivers  wind 
Along  a  rosie  plain, 
And  silver  trouts  leap  up  to  find 
Their  morning  meate  again. 

Hark  !   Hark  !   The  cocks  doe  crow, 

Up  !   Up  !   Ye  merrie  men  ; 

And  Vixen  steals  away  unto 

Her  little  cubbies'  den. 

Blue  smoake  is  curling  thro'  the  vale  ; 

Come  the  sweet-breathing  kine, 

Where  down  I  set  a  milking  paile 

To  rub  my  mistie  eyen. 

But  now  the  Sun,  with  jollie  mirth, 

Doth  gladden  all  the  land 

And  bring  another  day  to  birth 

From  God's  Almighty  Hand. 

Hark  !   Hark  !   The  cocks  doe  crow. 

Up  !   Up  !   Ye  merrie  men  ; 

And  Vixen  steals  away  unto 

Her  little  cubbies'  den. 

12 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

LAST  night  the  wind  fought  the  wood  and  brought 
down  many  branches.  I  heard  the  trees  suffering 
and  lamenting  where  I  lay  sleepless  ;  but  I  could  not 
go  to  help  them.  The  great  wind  made  me  listen  to 
him  :  he  would  not  have  listened  to  me. 


«5> 


THE  peat  fire  was  a  glowing,  rosy-red  heap  on  the 
hearth  and  over  it  danced  an  aureola  of  delicate 
mauve,  not  flame,  but  the  ghost  of  vanished  sunshine 
— dawns  and  dimpsy  Hghts  that  had  gone  to  hearten 
and  build  the  peat  in  past  centuries.  In  the  depth  of 
the  fire  I  saw  again  the  heather's  piiik  and  purple,  the 
twining  dodder,  blue  milkwort,  yellow  tormentil  and 
sweet  wild  thyme.  And  I  saw  the  forgotten  moormen 
who  had  tramped  it,  the  beasts  that  had  padded  over 
it,  the  birds  that  had  built  their  nests  in  it. 


15^ 


AT  stream-side  a  man  kept  watch  over  a  little  boy 
and  girl  who  were  playing.  He  was  a  hairless, 
epicene  thing  with  a  mother's  eyes  on  the  children. 
He  talked  to  me  about  their  promise  and  good  qualities  ; 
but  they  were  not  his.  He  spoke  only  as  a  fond  mother 
would  have  spoken.  Indeed  he  might  have  borne  them 
had  he  been  created  a  woman,  but  he  could  never  have 
got  them. 

13 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

A  MAN  and  girl,  engaged  to  be  married,  were 
looking  at  a  spray  of  blackthorn,  whereon  clusters 
of  ripe  fruit  misted  purple  under  their  delicate  bloom, 
while  a  few  bright  yellow  leaves  clung  to  the  bough 
for  colour  contrast. 

"  What  beauty  !  "  said  the  man. 
"  Sloes  make  ripping  gin,"  answered  the  girl. 
With  such  diversely  sane  points  of  view,  one  felt 
hopeful  that  they  would  be  happy. 


BROODING  motionless  and  silent,  there  came  upon 
me  suddenly  a  dog-fox.  Trotting  down  wind,  he 
leapt  upon  a  boulder  and  found  himself  within  ten 
yards  of  the  enemy.  I  had  time  to  admire  the  lean 
lines  of  him,  his  red  coat,  great  white-tipped  brush  and 
black  mask.  Instinctively  he  showed  his  teeth,  then 
hopped  round  and  loped  away,  going  easily-  but  fast. 
A  gunshot  off  he  stood  and  looked  back,  and  behind 
he  left  a  vulpine  reek,  doubtless  startled  from  him  by 
such  painful  proximity  to  a  man. 

Lack  of  consciousness  alone  saves  the  wild 
creatures.  Did  they  possess  any  sense  of  their  eternal 
insecurity,  it  would  shatter  their  will  to  live  ;  as  so 
often  happens  with  human  beings,  who  destroy 
themselves  because  they  cannot  trust  the  world  any 
longer. 

14 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

OVER  dew-drenched  herbage,  glittering  grey  with 
the  dawn-mother's  tears,  some  little  creature  had 
run  home  and  left  the  mark  of  its  paws  green  on  the 
silver.  To  leave  a  footprint  in  the  dew,  for  some  son 
of  the  morning  to  see  ere  day  has  dried  it — a  modest 
ambition  and  within  reach  of  the  least  of  us,  who  try 
to  make  good  things. 

It 

AFTER  long  search  I  found  at  last  the  Cornish 
moneywort  trailing  its  tender  sprays  over  a  stone 
at  stream-side.  Would  a  purse  of  gold  have  delighted 
me  as  much  as  this  fairy  money  ?  More  ;  but  the 
pleasure  had  been  of  a  commoner  quality. 


15b 


AT  a  picnic  by  the  river  were  present  two  old  and 
kindly  virgins  who  loved  beautiful  things.  The 
talk  ran  on  Rome  ;  then  upon  statues.  They  spoke 
of  the  Venus  of  Milo  and  both  pressed  the  point,  with 
eagerness,  that  the  stone  might  not  stand  for  Venus 
at  all.     Their  desire  was  that  it  should  not. 

I  had  it  on  my  lips  to  ask  :  "  Why  deny  to  the  greatest 
figure  of  woman  genius  of  man  has  created,  embodi- 
ment of  the  mightiest  passion  heart  of  man  can  know  ?  " 

But  I  was  dumb,  for  they  had  missed  love  :  other- 
wise they  had  not  uttered  such  a  hope. 

15 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

AT  winter  nightfall  appeared  the  ghostly  beauty  of 
a  larch  wood  from  which  the  final,  lemon  flash  of 
autumn  had  fallen  and  left  all  bare.  Every  naked  tree 
was  defined  among  its  neighbours  by  a  touch  of  fading 
light,  that  ran  in  a  thread  round  each  pavilion  and 
gave  it  distinction  and  entity  amid  the  myriad  similar 
shapes — all  alike  yet  all  differing. 

The  colours  of  the  wood  were  grey  and  dun  mingled, 
but  the  dun  faded  as  I  watched.  There  was  neither 
light  nor  darkness  in  the  recesses  of  the  trees  and  the 
gloom  of  earth  heaved  up  through  their  transparent 
forms.  Like  an  encampment  of  phantom  tents  they 
stood  on  the  edge  of  night  and  armed  ghosts  seemed 
to  move  shadowy  beneath  them. 

«5e 

I  MET  an  angler  full  of  the  science  of  his  craft. 
He  said  :  "  The  great  thing  is  to  know  what  a 
fly  looks  like  to  a  fish."  But  a  greater  would  be  to 
know  what  his  world  looks  like  to  a  fish.  If  one  might 
live  in  a  trout's  world  for  twenty-four  hours,  or  a 
tiger's,  or  even  a  tom-tit's,  one  would  write  something 
worthy  the  name  of  book, 

CHALLENGED  by  the  scream  of  a  bird,  I  hastened 
to  see  a  magpie,  with  blows  from  his  heavy  bill, 
hammering  the  life  out  of  a  wounded  starling.    Acting 

i6 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

on  impulse,  I  interfered,  sent  the  murderer  off  and  let 
the  broken- winged  starling  scuttle  under  a  bush.  But 
it  can  never  fly  again,  and  death,  in  shape  of  bird  or 
stoat,  is  only  a  question  of  another  day,  or  night. 
Had  I  left  the  matter  alone,  this  creature  would  now  be 
out  of  all  trouble  ;  but  well-meaning  often  lengthens 
misery,  without  forestalling  it.  I  was  being  kind  to 
myself,  not  to  the  starling,  when  I  meddled. 


15b 


IN  the  marshes  the  buckbean  has  lifted  its  feathery 
mist  of  flower  spikes  above  the  bed  of  trefoil 
leaves.  The  fimbriated  flowers  are  a  miracle  of  work- 
manship and  every  blossom  exhibits  an  exquisite 
disorder  of  ragged  petals  finer  than  lace.  But 
one  needs  a  lens  to  judge  of  their  beauty  :  it  lies 
hidden  from  the  power  of  our  eyes,  and  menyanthes 
must  have  bloomed  and  passed  a  million  times  before 
there  came  any  to  perceive  and  salute  her  loveliness. 
The  universe  is  full  of  magical  things  patiently  waiting 
for  our  wits  to  grow  sharper. 


«b 


THE  hunt  was  silhouetted  for  a  few  moments  on 
the    edge    of    a    great    hill,    where    little    black 
men  and  black  horses  galloped  against  a  welter  of 

17 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

white  clouds.  Then  they  came  over  the  edge  of  the 
height  and  a  sun-shaft  swept  them  and  touched  their 
colours,  while  a  horn  sent  its  thin  note  winding  across 
the  waste.  There  was  a  flash  of  far-away  pink,  and  a 
rider  on  a  white  horse  stood  out  from  the  rest.  Hounds 
also  were  visible  for  a  moment  strung  forward.  But 
the  fox  was  not. 

Half  the  hurry  and  hubbub  and  horn-blowing  in  the 
world  is  provoked  by  things  invisible  till  caught  and 
worthless  afterwards.  But,  for  good  or  ill,  you  have 
had  the  glory  of  a  fox  hunt  to  make  or  mar  you,  and  a 
brush  is  often  won  by  manlier  work  than  a  peerage. 


i8 


The  Lover's   Song 

BIRDS  gived  awver  singin', 
Flittermice  was  wingin', 
Mist  lay  on  the  meadows — 
A  purty  sight  to  see. 

Downlong  in  the  dimpsy,  the  dimpsy,  the  dimpsy— 
Downlong  in  the  dimpsy 
Theer  went  a  maid  wi'  me. 

Two  gude  mile  o'  walkin', 

Not  wan  word  o'  talkin'. 

Then  I  axed  a  question 

An'  put  the  same  to  she. 

Uplong  in  the  owl-light,  the  owl-light,  the  owl-light- 

Uplong  in  the  owl-light 

Theer  corned  my  maid  wi'  me. 


19 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

A  BIG  fish,  when  he  is  going  to  take  a  fly,  makes  no 
mistake  about  it ;  but  little  fish  often  miss  and 
strike  a  fraction  too  soon  or  too  late.  Not  only  many 
sports  but  the  game  of  life  itself  is  largely  a  matter  of 
timing.  I  have  missed  more  than  one  good  fly  in  my 
da}'  ;  but  whether  I  struck  too  soon  or  too  late  is  my 
affair. 

AN  oyster-grey  tabby  kitten  came  to  me  carrying 
his  ostrich-feather  tail  upright,  as  one  who  has 
done  well.  He  brought  in  his  mouth  a  golden-green 
dragon-fly,  stmck  down  in  the  rushes  by  the  river. 
The  silver  of  the  unlucky  dragon's  gauzes  matched  the 
captor's  furry  face  and  his  body  exactly  echoed  the 
kitten's  eyes.  In  slaying  the  dragon-fly,  the  kitten 
had  interfered  with  the  cosmic  scheme  ;  yet  the  result 
was  most  beautiful — as  often  happens  in  such  cases. 


«?b 


ONLY  our  egotism  conceives  of  any  condition  as 
lonely,  for  no  loneliness  exists  where  a  blade  of 
grass  can  grow,  or  a  bee  hum  ;  where  a  flower  breaks 
bud,  or  an  earth-born  rock  lifts  its  storj^  through  the 
snow.  It  is  by  drawing  hard  and  fast  Unes  between 
ourselves  and  everything  else  that  we  create  the  illusion 
of  being  alone.     We  can  be  solitary,  but  not  alone. 

20 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

THE  old  beech  kept  me  dry  enough  while  the  rain 
beat  steadily  on  his  head  ;  but  he  knew  how  to 
preserve  the  downpour  for  his  own  needs.  From  the 
mass  of  the  leaves  it  passed  to  the  ramage  of  the  twigs 
that  bore  them  and,  gaining  in  volume,  descended  as 
a  trickle  to  the  branches  and  a  brisk  fountain  to  the 
boughs.  Then  the  many  channels  met  at  the  fork,  to 
run  down  the  bole  in  a  torrent  and  vanish  under  the 
moss-covered  earth.  His  mighty  roots  will  drink  the 
rain  deep  underground  and  send  it  back  enriched  to 
every  bough  and  leaf-crowned  twig. 

1^ 

WHEN  Shakespeare  wrote  and  Elizabeth  reigned, 
the  Moor  was  more  populous  than  now.  The 
grey  ridges  of  the  tin-streamers  are  scattered  over 
the  valleys,  where  waters  ran  that  have  long  passed 
to  other  channels  ;  and  ruins  of  the  blowing  houses 
may  still  be  found,  with  moulds  carved  from  the  granite 
into  which  the  molten  tin  was  poured.  On  Crockern's 
shaggy  lap  the  old  stannators  met  to  hold  their 
hypaethral  parliament,  right  wrong  and  make  the 
tinners'  laws.     Such  hardy  men  are  still  with  us. 

THE  heath-lark   builds  her  nest   under   a   tuft  of 
heather,  where   the  green  moss  fingers  about  its 
roots.      Her    nursery    is    of    dead    grass    and    twigs, 

B  21 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

lined  with  hair,  gathered  from  the  thorns  where  cattle 
have  passed  by.  Here  she  lays  her  dark  brown  eggs, 
and  when  some  wandering  colt  sets  his  foot  on  the  nest, 
to  throw  all  in  ruins,  she  laments  through  a  brief  hour 
of  suffering  and  doubtless  would  regard  the  pony  as  a 
fiend  of  motiveless  malignity  if  she  could  reason.  But 
he  browses  on  unknowing  and  innocent  of  the  crushed 
eggs,  or  slain  fledglings.  So  men  once  cried  against 
the  gods  before  unmerited  disaster,  and  thus  relieved 
their  broken  hearts  ;  but  now  they  know  their  bale 
and  boon  arise  from  unconscious  Circumstance,  and 
that  it  is  as  vain  to  curse  the  evil  as  to  bless  the  good. 

LITTLE  black  bees  were  on  the  blossoms  of  the 
wild  cherry.  They  worked  in  its  snow-white  cups 
and  often  shook  down  the  petals  from  the  flowers. 
They  darted  from  cluster  to  cluster,  loading  their  thighs 
with  primrose-coloured  pollen,  while  their  wings 
vibrated  in  a  fitful,  rather  shrill  murmur.  They  were 
ground  bees  and  had  made  their  home  among  the  stones 
in  a  bank  of  fine  grass,  thyme  and  dog-violets  not  far 
distant. 

If  man  were  driven  by  the  communal  impulse  of  the 
bee,  instead  of  left  groping  with  the  anti- social  instincts 
of  the  great  ape,  this  world  must  long  since  have 
become  another — less  romantic,  but  how  secure. 
Romance  used  to  be  enjoyed  deep  in  the  comfortable 
arm-chair   of    the    real.     But    four    long    years   have 

22 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

changed  that  and  turned  what  we  thought  was  the  real 
into  a  mythic  tale. 

SKY  always  shines  brighter  than  earth  and  the 
darkest  thunder- cloud  is  as  light  to  the  shadow 
it  casts  on  the  hill,  or  valley  beneath.  There  is  no 
higher  terrestrial  radiance  than  snow  in  sunshine  ;  but 
the  blue  sky  above  it  gives  far  greater  illumination. 
Snow  itself,  whether  whirling  in  wreaths  or  falling  in 
flakes,  is  darker  than  the  snow-cloud  from  which  it 
comes.  Only  against  a  background  of  earth  do  we 
perceive  its  whiteness,  and  the  artist  who  paints  falling 
snow  white  against  the  sky,  never  saw  it  thus. 

«?b 

MEETING  a  carrion  crow,  he  rose  from  the  heath 
and  croaked  as  he  did  so  : 
"  I  know  a  horse  that  will  be  dead  by  to-morrow  morn- 
ing ;  but  I  sha'n't  tell  you  where  he  is  ;  because  I  found 
him,  and  I'm  going  to  peck  out  his  eyes — not  you  !  " 

We  are  often  jealous  of  our  little  secrets,  though  to 
another  ear  they  generally  convey  neither  profit  nor 
entertainment. 

I   HAVE   passed    this  great  pool  below  the  bridge 
at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night,   yet   never 
known  it  to  be  dark.     The  pool  has  a  trick  to  hold  back 

23 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

a  little  light  after  the  day  is  done ;  and  it  heralds 
morning  long  before  the  outlines  of  the  hills  are  limned 
on  the  eastern  sky. 


GRANITE,  under  certain  stress  of  conditions,  suffers 
a  great  change  and  emerges  from  the  earth  as 
kaolen,  the  stuff  of  the  potter.  Thus  the  cloam  on  the 
cottage  table  was  once,  perhaps,  a  part  of  these  hills, 
and  came  from  the  clay  beds  a  few  miles  distant.  The 
cups  and  saucers  will  be  dust  again  to-morrow  and 
material  for  new  hills  and  valleys  ;  for  only  matter  is 
eternal,  no  form  of  it,  and  the  mountains  sink,  fade, 
renew  themselves  as  surely  and  easily  as  the  rainbow 
and  the  cloud  that  weave  their  jewels  and  their  crowns. 


«?b 


I  FOUND  an  old  tramp  heavily  asleep  under  an 
empty  dung-cart  that  threw  a  patch  of  shade  in 
a  shadowless  place.  He  lay  there  a  decayed  ruin, 
enjoying  for  an  hour  the  blessing  of  unconsciousness. 
His  pipe  had  fallen  out  of  his  mouth  and  I  left  an 
offering  beside  it  without  wakening  him.  He  is  near 
the  end  of  his  road  and  will  get  few  other  gifts  but  a 
coffin  and  a  grave. 

24 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

DIGGING  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  prophylactic 
peat,  turf-cutters  often  come  across  branches  and 
boughs  of  trees,  where  no  tree  has  stood  within  the 
memory  of  man.  I  saw  once  a  soUd  trunk  unearthed 
from  a  depth  of  six  feet  in  a  peat  bed.  The  timber 
was  stained  to  chocolate,  but  the  bark  glimmered 
silvery  through  the  dirt,  answered  the  light,  after  a 
darkness  of  centuries,  and  showed  the  remains  of  a 
birch-tree.  The  bark  had  hardly  suffered,  though  its 
texture  was  changed. 

With  the  most  ancient  living  men  and  women  also 
there  is  always  something  left  from  which  you  can 
reconstruct  them  and  see  them  again  as  they  must 
have  been  in  green  youth  and  vigour.  It  may  be 
physical,  but  appears  more  often  in  their  way  of 
looking  at  things.  The  bark  of  character  clings  to  the 
last. 


25 


Song  of  the   Bereft 


ON  Honeybag  Down,  when  the  lark's  aloft 
And  the  sky  shines  blue  and  the  wind  blows  soft, 
I  mind  the  thought  of  a  blessed  thing 
That's  gude  to  a  man  for  remembering. 
For  Widecombe  Town 
From  Honeybag  Down, 
To  they  twinkling  feet  that  did  climb  so  oft. 
Was  a  journey  of  joy  but  yester  Spring. 

On  Honeybag  Down,  now  the  Winter's  strife 
Turns  earth  to  a  flint  and  air  to  a  knife, 
I  tramp  through  the  frost-bitten  heath  alone 
And  answer  the  north  wind  moan  to  his  moan. 

For  Widecombe  Town 

From  Honeybag  Down 
Be  far  as  the  journey  from  death  to  Hfe  ; 
And  they  twinkling  feet  bide  under  a  stone. 


26 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

OVER  curtains  of  emerald  moss,  bright  drops  were 
dripping  into  a  river  pool  beneath.  The  crystal 
beads  trickled  down  their  green  cushion  and  splashed 
into  the  water,  where  swam  a  trout,  puzzled  that  this 
promising  ruffle  overhead  brought  nothing  for  him. 
\Vho  has  not  hurried  off  to  a  promising  ruffle,  only  to 
find  that  it  brought  nothing  for  him  ? 

ONCE  I  saw  the  '  ammil ' — a  very  rare,  winter 
phenomenon  produced  by  sudden  freezing  of 
heavy  rain,  or  fog.  It  differs  widely  from  a  frost  and 
displays  the  world  of  trees  and  stones  and  heather  as 
though  thinly  coated  with  transparent  glass.  Should  a 
morning  sun  flash  on  such  a  spectacle,  the  earth  emerges 
as  an  unfamiliar  and  glittering  dream.  '  Ammil '  must 
be  a  corruption  of  '  enamel,'  for  at  such  moments  every 
feature  of  the  natural  scene  is  encrustad  with  frozen 
water. 

Before  seeing  it,  I  once  asked  an  ancient  woman  to 
describe  the  wonder. 

She  said  :  "  'Tis  like  nothing  but  the  New  Jerusalem." 
Of  that  city  not  made  with  hands,  her  dim  eyes 
possessed  the  clearest  vision. 

A  RABBIT  ran  past  me   flying  from   terrible  but 
invisible  danger.     Had  he  stopped  beside  me,  he 
was  safe  ;   but  in  me  he  only  saw  another  enemy  and, 

27 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

though  far  spent,  still  struggled  on.  Close  behind 
came  two,  little,  cinnamon-coloured  snaky  things  with 
a  dab  of  white  on  their  breasts.  They  streaked  along 
the  rabbit's  trail  and  ran  into  him,  not  so  far  off  but 
that  I  heard  his  death  squeal  as  the  weasels  killed. 

Few  can  tell  friend  from  foe  when  hard  pressed,  for 
at  such  times  judgment  is  poisoned  by  terror  and  the 
world's  face  looms  one  menace.  The  instinct  to  trust 
was  once  a  native  thing,  but  has  long  been  bred  out  of 
savage  beast  and  man  by  civilisation.  Yet  barbaric 
peoples  often  proved  as  trustworthy  as  they  were 
trustful ;  while  the  spectacle  of  a  Christian  nation  false 
to  every  oath  and  human  obhgation  is  not  far  to  seek. 
Such  treason  shows  that  trust  depends  on  character, 
not  culture.  None  knows  the  value  of  being  able  to 
trust  a  good  man  better  than  a  bad,  and  the  assured 
honour  of  the  best  is  often  a  valuable  tool  to  the 
worst.  Yet  the  will  to  trust  was  not  bom  in  every 
child  for  nothing  and  must  play  its  part  in  the 
evolution  of  morals,  when  the  power  to  trust  becomes 
enlarged. 

UPON  a  bank,  above  the  backwater  of  a  stream, 
lay  some  empty  shells  of  the  fresh-water 
mussel.  It  is  a  secluded  creature  and  one  never  thinks 
much  about  it  until  suddenly  faced  with  its  remains. 
But  enemies  know  its  dwelling,  drag  it  up  from  its 
moorings   and   devour   it.     There   are   many   similar, 

28 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

shadowy  acquaintance — people  we  have  passed  at  right 
angles  on  the  roads  of  life — whom  we  only  remember 
again  on  hearing  that  they  are  dead. 


^ 


THE  grey  cuckoo  is  back  on  the  Cuckoo  Stone — 
a  granite  boulder  in  mid-Moor.  Long  I  watched 
him  and  his  mate  whirling,  wheeling,  luring  each  other 
backward  and  forward  on  love's  invisible  chain.  The 
hollow  echo  of  his  song  beats  like  a  bell  over  the  hills 
and  valleys  ;  but  he  has  another  note — a  deep,  guttural 
gurgle — as  loud  as  the  first,  but  not  so  resonant.  His 
song  he  offers  to  all :  it  is  a  part  of  the  orchestra  of 
Spring  ;  but  his  strange  love  cry,  like  an  old  man 
laughing,  he  keeps  for  a  hen  alone. 

I  do  not  share  the  moral  reprobation  of  the  cuckoos' 
family  arrangements,  though  their  polyandrous  methods 
are  reactionary  and  not  in  the  line  of  progress.  But 
better  a  good  foster  parent  than  a  mother  without 
maternal  instinct  and  a  father  unknown.  If  you 
lack  genius  for  upbringing  of  a  family,  how  far  kinder 
to  bestow  your  offspring  on  one  who  possesses  it.  These 
birds  have  no  flair  for  'home,  sweet  home  ' — and 
know  it.  If  we  were  as  sensible,  there  would  not  be 
so  many  people  sad.  Better  the  ministry  of  hedge- 
sparrow  or  linnet  than  a  cuckoo  mother ;  for  good 
mothers  are  born,  not  made  by  the  accident  of  maternity. 
Higher  education  is  breeding  out  the  instinct  of  mother- 

29 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

hood  and  in  time  to  come  the  world's  population  wiU 
decrease  as  the  safety  of  nations  ceases  to  depend  upon 
their  size.  To  breed  without  security  for  offspring  is 
worse  than  the  cuckoo. 


IF  you  cut  slantwise  through  a  stem  of  eagle  fern, 
you  will  find  in  the  frail  fabric  a  very  excellent 
picture  of  a  spreading  oak.  That  such  a  slight  and 
delicate  thing  should  hold  the  likeness  of  the  stoutest 
tree,  serves  to  remind  one  how  the  gentlest  heart  often 
hides  a  splendid  pattern  of  fortitude  and  resolution. 


«?b 


RETURNING  in  the  last  twilight,  after  bee  and 
bird  had  gone  to  their  nests  and  only  the 
beetles  boomed,  I  came  upon  a  tall  granite  spHnter 
set  upright  over  the  grave  of  a  stone  man.  He  must 
have  been  a  chieftain,  or  seer,  to  have  won  such  a 
memorial ;  and  gathering  night  made  the  menhir 
solemn,  where  it  stood  on  a  hill  crest  and  kept  tryst 
with  the  centuries.  It  spoke  of  the  neoliths,  who  buried 
their  heroes  deep  and  set  their  graves  on  distant 
summits  far  from  the  hving.  For  they  mistrusted  the 
spirits  of  their  dead  and  little  Uked  to  think  of  them 
as  returning  to  brood  upon  the  scenes  of  their  power 
and  triumph. 

30 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

ONE  can  reconstruct  the  stone  men's  lodges  above 
the  rings  of  grey  granite  that  still  mark  them  on 
hill-sides  and  in  river  valleys.  It  is  easy  to  see  again 
the  cone-shaped  domes  of  weathered  hides,  patched  and 
hairy  ;  the  smoke-wreath  ascending  from  a  hole  at  the 
top  ;  the  sleeping  ledge,  lifted  above  the  stone  floor 
within ;  the  open  hearth  and  the  baby's  wolf-skin 
cradle. 

The  fur-clad  people  are  thought  to  have  been  dwarfish 
and  dark,  with  coarse,  plentiful  hair,  prognathous 
profiles,  low  foreheads  and  heavy  jaws.  They  were 
herdsmen  and  pounded  their  cattle  by  night  against 
the  wolf  and  bear.  These  and  the  wild  deer  they 
hunted,  and  their  flint  arrow-heads  are  still  to  be 
found  at  old  fabricating  places  by  the  streams,  or 
where  the  paws  of  rabbit  and  badger  have  scratched 
them  out  of  burrow  and  holt. 


% 


NO  more  do  they  pray  to  their  gods  of  the  thunder 
and  Hghtning ;  no  more  do  they  bless  the  sun 
and  rain,  when  their  days  were  warmed  with  light  and 
plenty.  Their  mortuaries  lie  under  the  heather  and 
they  that  trod  these  wastes  are  part  of  it.  The  blood 
they  shed  has  enriched  the  earth  ;  the  tears  they  shed 
fell  on  the  heath  of  their  time,  that  bums  on  the 
hearthstone  of  ours.  Their  tale  is  told ;  but  their 
monuments  remain  and  the  granite  that  those  hands 

31 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

dragged  hopefully  to  build  a  home,  sadly  to  mark  a 
grave,  still  stands  in  alignments  and  pounds,  in  circles 
and  cairns  and  solitary  stones  remote. 

Under  grey  or  golden  weather,  through  the  pageant 
of  the  seasons,  their  deserted  villages  lie  in  Time's  lap  ; 
and  seeing  them  scattered  here,  so  harmonious,  so 
solemn,  and  so  still,  the  heart  goes  out  to  those  vanished 
shepherds  across  the  centuries  that  roU  between  their 
pUgrimage  and  our  own. 


«5j 


THOUGH,  for  man,  her  mockery  of  Hfe  is  too 
tremendous  and  distant  to  move  him,  the  moon, 
steaHng  across  night,  must  ever  be  earth's  monitor. 
Earth  lifts  her  dewy  eyes  in  sorrow  to  the  ghost  planet ; 
her  hour  of  rest  is  saddened  by  the  spirit  of  that  dead 
and  gone  sister  ;  and  she  mourns  on  the  height  of  her 
mountains  and  in  the  depth  of  her  seas,  that  the  moon 
is  but  a  mirror  to  show,  how  for  her  and  all  who  dwell 
on  her  bosom,  Death  in  his  patience  also  waits.  He 
gathers  up  the  stars  Uke  flowers  and  knows  when  the 
ruby  and  golden  petals  are  ready  to  fall ;  while  Life 
sows  new  suns  to  bud  and  bloom  and  scatter  the  seed 
of  other  worlds  around  them  in  their  season.  For 
after  unnumbered  ages  of  frost  and  death,  the 
dead  stars  meet  at  last  in  hurricanes  of  flame, 
to  burn  out  upon  the  fields  of  space  once  more  and 
write  in  letters  of  fire  the  prelude  of  another  life  story. 

32 


Song  of  the  Old  Singer 

HE  came  to  sing  some  olden  songs 
That  hardly  any  now  remember. 
He  braved  a  night  of  wild  December 
And  tramped  in  pregnant  with  his  wrongs. 

He  grumbled  at  his  weight  of  years 
And  cursed  the  harsh,  unfriendly  season  ; 
He  offered  a  sufficient  reason 
Why  future  time  for  him  meant  tears. 

Yet  when  the  wight  began  to  sing 
An  ancient,  Carolean  ditty, 
He  asked  for  no  man's  ruth,  or  pity, 
But  made  the  cottage  dresser  ring. 

The  song  for  him  wove  passing  sleight 
To  summon  churchyard  folk  together. 
Help  him  forget  his  slender  tether 
And  wake  a  laugh  that  winter  night. 

His  far-off  look  and  far-off  smile 
Welcomed  dead  men  and  women,  stealing 
With  some  faint,  ghostly  power  of  healing. 
To  hearten  him  a  little  while. 

35 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

A  FARMER  showed  me  a  calf,  and  the  point  of 
his  hopes  and  ambitions  concerning  it  centred 
more  in  its  parents  than  the  httle,  milky-nosed  creature 
itself.  He  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  its  dam's  varied 
virtues  and  its  sire's  bovine  grandeur  of  girth  and  con- 
stitution, hoping  that  the  little  bull  would  develop 
these  good  points  and  better  his  havage  in  his  progeny. 

Why  do  we  not  love  our  unborn  as  well  as  stock- 
raisers  and  those  who  labour  at  new  onions  and 
potatoes  ?  Surely  the  child  is  as  important  as  the 
horse  he  will  ride,  or  the  beef  and  vegetables  he  will 
consume  ? 

Let  our  hearts  grow  a  little  hotter  for  the  boys 
and  girls  to  be  ;  let  them  share  our  dreams  with  the 
sheep  and  the  sweet-pea  of  the  future.  Let  us  think 
upon  them  oftener,  that  when  they  come  we  can  trust 
them  to  be  wiser  than  ourselves  ;  that  when  they  have 
donned  their  flesh  and  we  have  doffed  our  own,  they 
may  look  back  and  know  that,  despite  our  limitations, 
we  loved  them.  The  foreglow  of  such  a  hope  is  upon 
the  horizon,  but,  curiously  enough,  the  religious  resent 
it.  Yet  eugenics  must  brighten  into  a  good  dawTi 
presently. 


SCOTCH  firs,  with  tall  red  trunks,  ^tand  on  a  bank 
where   the   brake-fern   ceases   and   a   tract  of  fine 
grass  slopes  to  the  river.     Here  come  many  creatures 

34 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

at  dusk,  and  while  the  trout  ring  the  water  with  their 
evening  rise,  pigeons  and  pheasants  drink  and  rabbits 
play  above  them.  A  brook  runs  into  the  main  stream 
at  a  pool,  and  never  did  tributary  enter  a  parent  river 
with  less  tumult,  or  emotional  display.  Hardly  a 
bubble  bursts.  There  is  a  swirl  and  eddy,  no  more, 
and  the  waters  are  one.  Not  so  with  some  such  unions, 
where  we  find  immense  stir,  foamy  kissing,  silvery 
cuddling  and  general  sentimentality,  that  take  a  long 
time  to  subside.  But  at  last  the  rivers  are  tired  of  their 
transport  and  glide  along  together,  like  old  married 
people. 

152 

THREE  small  boys  were  bathing  at  the  river  and 
looked  like  agitated  pink  pearls  in  a  shell  of  grey 
granite  and  silvery  water.  One  swam  through  the 
depths  ;  one  waded  to  his  middle  ;  and  the  third  cut 
graceful  antics  on  a  boulder.  He  did  not  wet  his  toes, 
so  far  as  one  could  see,  but  he  certainly  went  home  and 
said  that  he  had  been  bathing. 

If  you  told  some  folk,  who  beUeve  themselves  chin- 
deep  in  the  waters  of  life,  that  they  are  only  cutting 
graceful  antics  on  the  bank,  they  might  be  vexed  ;  yet 
often  so  it  is. 


35 


Song  of  the  Sick  Man 

BY  a  dew-lit,  dawn-bright  heath. 
Where  crested  lapwings  wail 
And  the  green  and  odorous  gale 
Breathes  her  sweet  breath, 
He  roamed  through  a  vanished  June 
To  his  heart's  tune. 

And  now,  with  bed-fellow  pain 

And  a  bundle  of  nerves  arack, 

Nigh  drowned  in  the  depth  of  night's  black 

While  driving  rain 

Keeps  mournful  patter  without. 

Where  storm  winds  shout. 

He  plays  with  time  like  a  toy. 
Because  Alma  Mater  was  kind 
And  granted  a  fashion  of  mind 
Thrifty  of  joy. 

Night,  winter  and  pain  all  go  : 
He  wills  it  so. 

By  a  dew-lit,  dawn-bright  heath 
Where  crested  lapwings  wail 
And  the  green  and  odorous  gale 
Breathes  her  sweet  breath, 
He  roams  through  a  vanished  June 
To  his  heart's  tune. 

36 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

UPON  a  beach  of  silver  sand  by  the  stream  there  had 
fallen  a  heron's  feather  with  ivory-white  shaft  and 
pearl-grey  plume.  If  this  were  trimmed  into  a  pen, 
how  well  one  might  write  of  solitude,  since  none  loves 
tliat  better  than  the  heron  and  I. 

1^ 

BETWEEN  two  and  three  o'clock — at  the  half- 
way house  of  night — I  heard  slow  hoofs  below  my 
window,  and  leaning  out,  saw  under  moonshine  two 
great  cart-horses  wandering  down  the  road  together. 
They  were  enj  oying  a  phase  of  their  existence  unknown 
to  us.  They  conversed  in  little  sounds  and  when  one 
stopped,  to  snort  and  sniff  at  the  water  of  a  duck-pond 
by  the  way,  the  other  also  stopped,  raised  his  head  and 
looked  steadfastly  up  into  the  starry  sky.  I  saw  the 
moonlight  in  his  big  eyes.  Presently  they  put  their 
noses  together.  Then  one  gave  a  slight  start — perhaps 
at  the  opinions  of  the  other — and  side  by  side  they 
sauntered  away  into  the  night-hidden  land. 

One  knew  that  they  were  revealing  much  about 
themselves  concealed  from  their  masters,  and  meditat- 
ing upon  life  in  their  fashion  while  man  slept. 

^, 

A  FISHERMAN  once  protested  to  me  against  the 
wicked  destruction  of  small   trout  and.  declared 
it  an  infamous  thing  that  anybody  should  take  them 
c  37 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

out  of  the  river.     Finding  that  he  had  caught  none  at 
all  himself,  either  great  or  small,  I  told  him  how  once 
in  a  carnival  at   Nice  two  women  cried  out  in  my 
hearing  against  the  wicked  destruction  of  violets. 
But  they  were  not  being  pelted. 

THE  migrant  ring-ousel  builds  year  after  year  in 
a  granite  quarry,  and  I  have  often  heard  him  there. 
It  is  a  solitary,  forgotten  place  and  he  knows  it  better 
than  most  living  people.  He  sang  last  spring  from  a 
rusty  rib  of  old  iron,  driven  into  the  rock  by  men  long 
dust.  His  song  differs  from  the  intimate  music  of  his 
kinsfolk,  the  blackbird  and  thrush.  It  is  thinner, 
colder,  more  elfin — the  pure  tinkle  of  a  mountain  brook. 
With  some  birds  you  feel  that  they  like  you  to  listen  to 
them  ;  not  so  the  shy  ring-ousel.  One  pays  something 
in  time  and  patience  for  his  song,  and  values  it  the 
more. 

9^ 

STANDING  upon  a  high  place,  the  smoke  of  swale- 
ing  fires  spread  for  miles  beneath  me.  Like 
scattered  feathers  they  roUed  out,  travelling  from  east 
to  west ;  and  some,  near  at  hand,  were  vast  as  clouds 
billowing  above  the  heath  ;  while  in  the  distance  they 
shrank  and  dimmed,  mile  on  mile,  to  mere  grey  puffs 
creeping  over  the  Moor. 

3S 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

Tracts  of  the  waste  are  thus  annually  cleansed  by 
fire  and  the  heather  and  furze  brakes  destroyed,  that 
the  grass  may  have  light  and  air  and  the  great  grazing 
grounds  offer  more  food  to  the  flocks.  Very  dismal  are 
the  expanses  of  black  char  and  grey  ashes  after  the 
fires  have  nibbled  and  gnawed  over  them  with  their 
red  teeth  ;  but  grass  breaks  green  from  this  rack  at 
the  first  spring  rain,  and  before  autumn,  round  each 
furze  stump  and  naked  clump  of  burnt-out  heath  and 
whortle,  young  growths  are  breaking,  enriched  by  the 
ashes,  to  build  up  their  familiar  splendour  in  a  year  or 
two.  They  will  grow  by  stealth  and  flourish  awhile  ; 
then  they  will  catch  the  eye  of  the  moorman  and  be 
burned  down  again. 

WHITE  bluebells  thrive  on  an  island  in  the  river. 
Beside  them  lady  ferns  uncurl  their  silver-green 
fronds  and  the  young  woodrush  buds  for  flower. 
From  above,  the  sterile  catkins  of  the  sallows  drop 
into  the  water.  They  are  borne  down-stream  looking 
like  silky  caterpillars  ;  but  only  to  our  eyes  :  the  trout 
do  not  think  so. 

9^ 

THE  bird  frightened  from  her  nest,  often  builds 
another ;  the  wounded  beast  creeps  to  his  den 
and  dies  without  anger.  Instinct  is  never  impatient ; 
only  reason  knows  to  be. 

But  the  wild  things,  perishing  hourly  without  succour, 

39 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

have  anodyne  we  know  not.  Terror  of  death  and  sense 
of  wrong  cannot  wound  their  hearts.  Perhaps  they 
wonder  a  Httle  at  the  first  failures  to  take  their  prey 
and  the  growing  hunger  and  weakness  that  follow ; 
but  they  have  not  long  to  wonder.  Lapse  from  perfect, 
self-supporting  life  quickly  turns  the  hunter  into  the 
hunted  and  the  end  of  most  wild  creatures  is  sudden.  A 
hard  and  protracted  frost  cuts  the  thread  of  countless 
soft-billed  birds,  who  go  to  roost  empty  and  fall  from 
sleep  into  death. 

UNDER  a  grey  crab-tree,  in  mid-winter,  its  autumn 
harvest  was  still  lying,  hard  and  plump,  scattered 
on  the  moss  in  a  woodland  clearing.  The  fruit  shone 
golden,  beautifully  flamed  with  scarlet ;  but  it  had 
not  tempted  anybody.  Here  and  there  a  mouse  had 
broken  an  apple  for  the  seeds,  though  not  often.  Many 
crab  people  have  nourishing  seeds  in  them  ;  but  life 
is  too  short  for  the  unpleasant  toil  of  extraction.  So 
they  are  left  to  wonder  what  it  is  that  denies  them  the 
attention  less  worthy  folk  enjoy.  They  are  conscious 
of  their  excellent  seeds  ;  quite  unconscious  of  the  sour 
pulp  in  which  they  are  packed  away. 

GLOW-WORMS   haunt    the    open,   weedy-covered 
water-tables  beside  high  roads.     Here,  after  dusk, 
they  scatter  the  grass  with  points  of  golden-green  and 

40 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

liquid  light.  It  is  a  genial  rather  than  cold  radiance — 
warmer  than  many  stars.  At  short  range  its  brilliance 
is  extraordinary  ;  but  it  does  not  penetrate  and  only 
reveals  a  few  grass  blades  and  inches  of  earth  round  the 
source  of  light.  Yet  upon  those  grass  blades  and  grains 
of  sand  and  soil  exist  many  invisible  creatures,  who 
must  see,  or  feel,  the  glow-worm's  little  lamp ;  and  to 
them  her  passing  is  far  more  tremendous  than  to  us 
would  be  blaze  of  a  great  comet.  For  how  rare  the 
wonder  when  their  whole  tiny  sky  is  filled  with  glory ! 
If  they  could  think,  doubtless  they  would  take  such 
an  illumination  to  be  the  supreme  fact  in  the  cosmic 
scheme  ;  and  so,  perhaps,  we  err  concerning  the  visible 
Universe  ;  which  may  only  be  the  glow-worm  of  beings 
that  move  on  a  grander  scale  than  we  can  imagine. 


1^ 


THE  dead  grass,  that  looked  so  white  yesterday, 
to-day  is  full  of  warm  colour  and  almost  bums 
through  the  snow  that  fell  last  night.  The  shadows 
of  the  oak  saplings  were  grey  yesterday  ;  they  stretch 
sky-blue  on  the  snow  to-day  ;  while  the  granite  boulders 
are  turned  a  dark  blue  and  the  withered  fern,  russet 
overnight,  is  purple  this  morning.  Snow  changes  all 
colour  values  and  displays  colour  in  objects  that  were 
colourless  to  our  eyes  before  it  fell.  Strong  character 
is  often  a  similar  touchstone,  to  bring  out  latent  colour 
in  its  neighbours,  or  suppress  their  native  hues.     But 

41 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

colour  depends  on  the  eye  that  chronicles  it  and 
character  is  often  as  illusory.  How  often  we  discover 
people  to  be  colour-bUnd,  when  they  examine  us  and 
our  works. 


»5> 


A  GREAT  sheaf  of  king  fern  touched  by  the  brush 
of  autumn  beckoned  me,  where  it  stood,  like  a 
pale  flame,  by  the  river.  It  rose  over  a  fibrous  black 
mass  of  intertwisted  root,  of  which  the  lower  portion 
was  immersed ;  and  one  felt  something  indeed  regal 
in  the  splendid  fronds  towering  breast-high,  and  still 
stout  and  strong,  despite  the  gold  of  death  deepening 
on  every  plume. 

I  longed,  as  often  before  incommunicable  mystery, 
to  penetrate  the  secret  of  this  beautiful  thing  and 
learn  its  good  and  ill,  its  plan  and  purpose,  what  it 
courted  and  dreaded  about  its  throne.  One  often 
desires  intimacy  with  creatures  powerless  to  grant  it, 
and  shuns  the  confidence  of  others  only  too  ready  and 
wiUing  to  do  so. 

"  Enter  into  every  man's  Inner  Self,"  says  Marcus, 
"  and  let  every  man  enter  into  thine."  But  how 
many  portals  worth  entering  will  grant  entrance, 
and  before  how  many  is  not  the  door  enough  to  frighten 
us  from  the  knocker  ? 

If  your  business  be  human  nature,  the  unconscious 
confession   often  suffices,   and   speaks   more  certainly 

42 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

than  any  professed  revelaticJh  tinctured  by  art  or 
craft ;  for  consciousness,  even  though  it  be  honest, 
is  nearly  always  too  self-conscious  to  be  true. 

To  many  we  cannot  show  ourselves  ;   from  some  we 
cannot  hide. 

AN  inn  that  I  used  to  frequent  was  chiefly  patronised 
by  sportsmen,  and  they  resembled  each  other 
in  their  general  outlook  on  life  and  reaUty.  Art,  in 
the  eyes  of  these  robust  and  jolly  persons,  was  not 
exactly  man's  work.  They  doubted  and  mistrusted 
those  who  practised  it,  dividing  artists  roughly  into 
two  classes.  Some  they  held  harmless  lunatics ;  some, 
who  employed  art  in  propaganda,  they  regarded  as 
dangerous  lunatics. 

But  they  agreed  that  all  must  be  lunatic. 


«5b 


ONCE  I  met  with  the  churn-owl  in  full  day  and 
found  the  hen  busy  on  a  rock  feeding  two  tiny 
fledglings,  as  yet  almost  bare  of  feathers.  But  this 
bird  only  arrives  in  mid-May  and  departs  in  September. 
The  date  was  already  August,  and  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  these  infant  churn-owls  to  gain  strength  of 
wing  and  fullness  of  plumage  during  the  few  remaining 
weeks  for  their  journey  south.     They  were  hatched  too 

43 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

late  and  a  time  was  clearly  coming  when  their  mother 
would  be  called  to  choose  between  stopping  to  perish 
with  them,  or  seeking  winter  quarters  alone. 

She  will  not  hesitate.  The  migratory  impulse  is 
stronger  than  the  maternal  in  nobler  mothers  than  the 
goatsucker ;  and  while  her  will  to  live  takes  the  bird, 
a  far  more  potent  force  drives  the  woman. 


THE  battered  trees  on  the  hill-top  fight  a  good 
fight  ;  but  their  struggle  is  a  losing  one  and  they 
fail  slowly  under  the  stress.  Limbs  that  the  winter 
storms  have  torn  from  them  rot  in  the  grass  at  their 
feet  and  more  than  one  tree  is  down.  They  bleed  and 
endure.  Their  neighbours  in  the  coomb  beneath  are 
snug  and  prosperous,  for  they  enjoy  shelter  from  harsh 
winds  and  bask  in  the  beam  of  noonday  ;  their  limbs 
are  sound  and  they  show  no  scars.  But  they  never  see 
the  sun  rise  or  set,  and  their  beauty  is  naught  to  that 
of  the  time-bom,  weather-beaten  veterans  aloft. 


44 


The  Tramp's  Song 

I'M  rotten  as  a  bird-pecked  pear 
Though  only  fifty-one  I  swear — 
Sing  tooral — looral  Hddy. 
And  rather  short  of  teeth  and  hair- 
Sing  tooral — ^looral  lay. 

My  togs  give  many  people  pain, 
My  shirt  lets  in  the  fleas  and  rain — 
Sing  tooral — looral  liddy. 
My  trousers  let  'em  out  again — 
Sing  tooral — looral  lay. 

A  pub  at  every  second  mile, 

By  night  a  shippon  thatch,  or  tile — 

Sing  tooral — looral  liddy. 

Are  all  I'm  asking  from  this  isle — 

Sing  tooral — looral  lay. 

Upon  the  Moor  some  day  I'll  die, 
And  when  red  brother  fox  goes  by — 
Sing  tooral — looral  liddy, 
May  he  not  find  me  gone  too  high — 
Sing  tooral — looral  lay. 

45 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

And  whether  in  the  next  abode 
I  sport  a  crown,  or  feel  a  goad — 
Sing  tooral — looral  liddy — 
My  Father,  let  there  be  a  road — 
Sing  tooral — looral  lay. 


46 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

THROUGH  this  valle}^  a  trout  stream  ran  when  I 
was  a  boy,  and  many  a  good  basket  did  I  win  there 
in  the  past.  The  river  wound  under  banks  of  dwarf 
sallow,  through  green  fiats  and  ferny  bottoms,  until  it 
came  to  an  old  bridge  that  spanned  a  gorge.  Here  the 
stream  tumbled  sharply  by  waterfalls  and  hanging 
woods  to  a  lower  level,  where  opened  meadow-land. 

Now  the  bridge  is  gone,  the  gorge  is  dammed  and  the 
green  valley  has  turned  into  a  lake.  But  its  silver  face 
cannot  hide  and  its  depths  will  never  drown  the  days 
I  spent  there. 

Memory  runs  clearer  as  it  rolls  deeper,  and  there  is  a 
precious  human  instinct  to  preserve  the  impression  of 
happy  hours,  but  let  the  dark  ones  grow  dim. 

^> 

A  KIND  old  woman  blessed  Providence  to  me 
because  great  provision  was  made  one  autumn 
for  the  birds.  But  birds  are  like  the  rest  of  us  and 
enjoy  their  fruit  when  it  is  ripe.  Only  a  few  four- 
footed  wild  things  know  to  hoard :  no  bird  looks 
ahead.  Liberal"  though  the  harvest,  when  February 
comes  and  the  ground  is  iron,  there  will  be  few  berries 
left,  save  on  the  ivy.  Then  the  birds  follow  their  food 
into  warm  recesses  of  the  woods,  where  still  the  earth 
is  soft,  or  haunt  the  tideways  and  river  estuaries. 
Farmyards  and  broken  stacks  also  promise  bounty, 
and  fields,  where  manure  is  being  scattered,  are  a 
blessing  to  great  and  small.    Later,  when  frost  breaks, 

47 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

they  pay  court  to  the  ploughman  and  wait  at  white 
dawn  by  the  arable  lands  for  him  and  his  horses  to 
arrive. 

This  year  many  acres  are  under  the  coulter  that 
have  not  been  ploughed  since  the  Peninsular  War,  so 
our  birds  should  do  well. 

15b 

A  STRANGE,  leafless  herb  haunts  the  heather  and 
dwarf  furze,  using  them  as  a  cushion  for  its  lace- 
work.  The  lesser  dodder  looks  Hke  a  rose-red  spider's 
web  matted  in  the  plants  from  which  it  sucks  life.  Its 
tangle  of  bright  filaments  is  knotted  with  clusters  of 
little  pale  flowers. 

The  parasite  always  reminds  me  of  critics  who  bite 
the  hand  that  feeds  them  and  seek  to  strangle  mightier 
writers  on  whom  their  own  activities  depend.  Relij,ious 
predilections  vitiate  much  criticism  and  often  breed 
malice.  The  impotent  dodder  suggests  De  Quincey's 
pitiful  assaults  upon  Goethe,  Shelley,  Lucretius; 
Ruskin  baring  his  teeth  at  Darwin  ;  Mr  Chesterton's 
crude  insolence  to  Thomas  Hardy.  Live  in  a  cage  if 
you  please,  but  do  not  make  faces  through  the  bars  at 
your  betters,  who  prefer  to  go  free.  Such  bad  manners' 
frighten  many  away  from  dogma  to  morals,  where  the 
breezes  blow  purer  ;  for  people  who  live  in  cages  create 
an  atmosphere  and  the  fumes  are  very  unfavourable  to 
honesty.  Let  the  dust  fall  on  such  dishonoured  pages 
— they  were  written  with  hate  ;  but  we  will  cherish  what 
these  men  wrote  in  love. 

48 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

I  WENT  to  see  a  woman  whose  husband  had  died 
since  my  last  visit.  She  was  still  comatose  with 
grief  and  her  cottage  desolate  and  neglected.  One 
hesitated  between  the  narcotic  of  sympathy  and  the 
tonic  of  sense.  When  to  be  firm,  when  gentle,  needs 
judgment,  and  as  a  rule  gentleness  is  more  easy  and 
firmness  more  wise.  Sympathy's  blade  often  turns 
in  the  hand,  and  sympathetic  people,  while  they 
learn  most  about  human  nature,  may  be  serving  human 
nature  worse  than  the  practical,  who  lack  imagination, 
or  melody  of  manner.  The  ideal  is  a  heart  to  share 
sorrow  and  a  head  to  help  it.  Much  depends  on  such  a 
physical  accident  as  the  note  and  modulation  of  speech. 
I  once  heard  a  voice  that  said  foolish  things  bring  un- 
conscious comfort  by  its  tone  ;  while  an  abrupt  and 
grating  utterance,  charged  with  sense,  missed  any  good 
purpose  for  the  racked  listener.  It  was  a  stupid  man 
who  succeeded  where  an  intelligent  woman  failed. 

THE  tramp  of  your  own  feet  will  weave  places 
together  and  establish  the  link  between  them,  so 
that  after  the  long  trudge  they  are  never  again  separated 
in  your  mind  as  before.  They  are  one  in  thought 
henceforth,  together  with  the  spaces  that  divide  them. 
Ignorance  of  those  spaces  created  the  hiatus ;  but 
having  passed  over  the  gap,  it  is  a  gap  no  more.  Thus  I 
have  come  to  regard  this  pleasure  ground  and  workshop 
of  hamlets,  farmsteads  and  inns,  of  solitary  hills,  river 

49 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

valleys  and  far-flung,  featureless  levels,  as  an  integral 
thing — not  scattered  acquaintance,  but  one  huge  friend. 
Only  on  foot,  or  horseback,  could  you  learn  it  thus. 
Regions  that  demand  long  joumeyings  between  them, 
through  spaces  we  shall  never  know,  cannot  be  welded 
into  one. 


THE  March  river  was  a  roaring  volume  of  cherry- 
red  water,  on  which  sailed  shivering  flakes  of  pale 
brown  spume.  The  freshet  ran  up  the  black  peat 
banks,  drowned  the  beaches  and  spread  into  the  bog- 
land  on  either  side.  Overhead  was  a  chilly  blue  sky 
with  the  last  rack  and  rearguard  of  the  nightly  storm 
blown  across  it.  The  reflection  of  the  blue  glinted  a 
shade  darker  than  itself  on  the  water. 

A  hump-backed  man,  carrying  a  battered  creel  and 
home-made  rod,  came  to  fish  with  worm.  He  was  a 
tattered,  hairy  little  creature  and  he  had  a  merry  face 
and  bright  eyes.  With  the  wind  in  his  rags  and  his 
beard,  he  looked  more  like  a  mommet  than  a  man. 

"  A  dozen  half-pounders  before  noon  !  "  he  promised, 
and  may  have  kept  his  word. 

«5b 

FILMY   fern   still   haunts    the   rocks   in    sheltered 
glens    and    dingles    beside    the    river ;     but    its 
tiny,    transparent    fronds    resemble    moss    so    nearly 

50 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

that  it  generally  escapes  the  hunter.  At  one 
time  it  was  sought  for  Wardian  cases ;  now  that 
fashion  has  departed  and  the  filmy  fern  is  left  in 
peace . 

Another  rare  thing,  lingering  in  caves  and  deserted 
mine  adits,  is  the  shining  moss,  that  gUmmers  like  dim 
gold  under  darkness.  Those  who  snatch  at  it  and 
bring  it  to  the  daylight  find  only  a  little  rusty  earth 
in  their  hands. 


ISb 


ON  still  days,  when  the  mind  is  resting  and  the  sky 
clouded,  yet  not  too  heavily  curtained  to  show  the 
place  of  the  sun  ;  on  days  at  the  edge  of  autumn,  rest- 
ful days — a  suspension  between  one  storm  and  another 
— when  the  flame  and  pomp  of  the  fading  year  are 
hidden  in  monotone  ;  there  is  awakened  a  melancholy 
that  does  not  deepen  into  sadness,  but  rather  sustains 
than  casts  down.  It  springs  of  the  diurnal  mood, 
spreads  placidly  through  our  thoughts  and  is  welcome  ; 
it  comes  in  temperate  guise  and  flings  never  a  sharp 
shadow  to  heighten  the  splendour  of  great  lights ;  it 
brings  no  inspiration,  but  rather,  like  the  mist,  it  dims 
and  softens  and  leaves  the  mind  gentle,  receptive  and 
pervious  to  sensation.  Other  days  dominate  by  force 
and  demand  active  emotion  and  action  ;  these  still, 
grey  hours  steal  upon  the  spirit  and  by  their  quality 

51 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

win  us  to  a  pensive  patience  before  the  spectacle  of 
life. 

1^ 

THERE  came  an  evening  when  I  caught  a  trout  for 
the  last  time,  wound  in  my  line,  put  away  the 
flies,  and  took  down  my  rod  for  ever.  Over  five  and 
twenty  years,  without  one  break,  I  fished,  and  then 
determined  to  fish  no  more.  We  seldom  deliberately 
do  an  accustomed  deed  for  the  last  time.  We  often 
resolve  that  it  shall  be  the  last,  yet  fail  of  the  resolution. 
But  in  this  case  no  strength  of  purpose  kept  me  to  my 
plan  ;  I  felt  not  one  regret  to  stop  ;  no  desire  to  go  on 
again  tempted  me  when  the  season  returned.  If  a 
doctor  had  told  me  not  to  fish,  or  any  obstacle  had 
come  in  the  way,  I  should,  perhaps,  have  been  sorry 
for  myself  and  striven  desperately  for  reasonable 
excuses  to  resume  the  sport.  To  break  faith  with  a 
doctor,  or  plot  to  circumvent  a  promise  to  yourself  is 
human  ;  to  persist  in  a  habit  that  has  begun  to  weary 
you  would  be  uiinatural. 

A  GOLDEN  bird  sat  on  the  golden  gorse,  and  uttered 
his  little,  long-drawn  plaintive  song.  On  a  sunny 
day,  one  would  have  loved  better  the  lark  aloft,  or  the 
thrush  near  his  home  in  the  larch  ;  but  upon  this  spring 
morning  of  sad  grey  skies  and  fine  rain  misting  on  the 
south  wind,   the  yellow-hammer's  melody  was  right. 

52 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

THERE  is  a  clear  spring  under  a  pent  roof  of  moss- 
grown  and  ferny  stones  on  the  open  Moor.  When 
the  sun  slants,  you  can  read  a  date  upon  the  granite — 
1568  ;  and  tradition  tells  that  John  Fitzford,  an  old 
lawyer  and  star-reader,  being  pixy-led  and  losing  his 
way  upon  the  heath,  found  the  spring,  drank  of  it  and 
so  escaped  from  his  spell.  In  gratitude  he  built  up 
these  stones  to  commemorate  the  incident  ;  and  I  have 
met  old  men  who  vowed  the  waters  still  hold  healing 
and  are  good  against  many  ills. 

Preserve  all  local  sanctities  of  place  and  oral  tradi- 
tion as  you  can.  The  antiquary  may  be  trusted  for  the 
one  ;  but  words  and  myths  have  many  foes  and  vanish 
before  the  schools,  like  ghosts  at  the  grey  breath  of 
morning.  The  morning  is  welcome,  yet  I  mourn  the 
death  of  many  pleasant  ghosts,  slain  with  bell,  book 
and  candle  of  unimaginative  learning.  In  folklore  of 
fairies,  in  good  wishing  and  evil  wishing,  in  charms  of 
hurt  and  healing,  in  simples  gathered  at  right  seasons 
under  sun  and  moon,  in  churchyards  and  legends  and 
natural  things  set  to  supernatural  use,  much  appears 
that  influenced  the  lives  of  the  old  people,  who  were 
born  in  belief  of  these  spells  and  mysteries.  They  re- 
acted on  character  ;  and  you  who  write  of  such  legends, 
hold  none  too  archaic  or  grotesque  to  set  down  in  its 
place  ;  for  these  things  fall  quicklier  than  the  elms  at 
March,  and  cannot  be  recovered.  Hourly  they  perish, 
in  the  withering  brains  of  ancient  men  and  women, 
and  are  lost  for  ever. 


53 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

THE  West  wind  is  blind  and  does  not  see  his  work. 
He  blows  neither  to  pleasure  the  world  nor  the 
people  in  it. 

He  has  played  on  this  granite  harp  of  crags  since  it 
was  flung  up  out  of  the  earth,  sometimes  in  whispers 
and  sometimes  with  energy  so  huge  that  the  stone 
trembled  to  his  touch.  He  has  shepherded  centuries 
of  clouds  and  brought  to  earth  the  leaves  of  a  miUion 
autumns.  He  brushes  your  cheek  and  passes  on  with 
caress  as  rough,  or  gentle,  to  the  beasts  of  the  field  and 
the  graves  of  the  dead.  He  helps  the  fledglings'  flight 
and  drowns  the  ocean-going  ships  ;  he  scatters  the 
thistledown  and  drags  up  the  forest  by  its  roots  ;  he 
sows  the  invisible  seed  of  the  fern  and  hurls  down  much 
patient  work  of  man.  He  woke  with  the  creation  of 
the  earth,  and  not  until  the  sun  begins  to  grow  cold  and 
our  planet  dies  will  he,  also,  fold  up  his  mighty  wings 
and  perish. 

THE  East  wind  is  a  rare  painter  and  can  do  more 
with  his  veils  and  gauzes  and  feathers  upon  the 
naked  sky  than  the  \^^est  wind,  for  all  those  giant  peaks 
and  pinnacles  of  cloud  he  lifts  from  old  ocean.  The  East 
wind  knows  not  the  crystal  clarity  of  rain- soaked  air. 
He  works  with  dry  brushes  and  hides  the  horizon  under 
enchanted  colours,  so  that  though  earth  curdles  beneath 
his  stroke,  the  woods  ache  through  and  through,  the 
waters  show  their  teeth,  the  cattle  turn  their  backs, 

54 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

aloft  float  tender,  fairy  tones  and  the  hills  lie  under 
many-tinted  haze. 

The  tyrant  loves  to  go  in  delicate  raiment  of  azare 
and  silver  and  rose,  draped  orient- wise  over  his  steel 
bosom.  His  dagger  leaps  from  a  sheath  of  pearl  and 
opal  and  he  smiles  while  he  stabs. 


55 


The  Gaffer's  Song 

A  SUDDEN  wakin',  a  sudden  weepin' ; 
A  li'l  suckin',  a  li'l  sleepin'  ; 
A  cheel's  full  joys  an'  a  cheel's  short  sorrows, 
Wi'  a  power  o'  faith  in  gert  to-morrows. 

Young  blood  red-hot  an'  the  love  of  a  maid  ; 
Wan  glorious  hour  as'll  never  fade  ; 
Then  shadows  and  sunshine  an'  triumphs  an'  tears 
Pile  the  gatherin'  weight  o'  the  flyin'  years. 

Now  auld  man's  talk  o'  the  days  behind  me  ; 
My  darter's  youngest  darter  to  mind  me ; 
A  li'l  dreamin',  a  li'l  dyin', 
A  li'l,  lew  corner  o'  airth  to  lie  in. 


56 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

THE  old  oak-tree  was  passing,  as  he  had  lived — 
nobly.  The  lightning  had  struck  him  and  torn 
off  a  mighty  bough,  from  which  wound  death  crept 
downward  into  the  mass  of  his  trunk  ;  but  still  he  broke 
amber  buds  in  spring,  dropped  acorns  in  autumn,  and 
poured  his  energy  and  high  courage  into  the  living 
limbs,  that  they  might  be  distinguished  and  splendid 
so  long  as  the  sap  would  mount.  He  will  go  game  and 
may  be  an  object  worthy  of  admiration  for  some  human 
generations  yet. 

Lesser  things  than  the  oak,  if  blessed  with  good  blood, 
also  die  hke  gentlemen.  A  Persian  carpet,  or  piece  of 
Sheraton  makes  a  distinguished  end  and  bears  itself 
with  dignity  to  the  last — as  aristocrats  before  the 
guillotine.  But  a  Brussels,  or  bit  of  mid- Victorian 
will  be  found  to  grovel,  show  its  unlovely  wounds  and 
scream  for  pity. 


9^ 


AMID  coarse  or  illiterate  speech  one  often  catches 
a  dignified,  old  English  phrase  in  the  mouth  of 
the  folk.  If  repeated,  as  coming  from  a  rustic,  such 
expressions  would  be  doubted  and  the  chronicler  ques- 
tioned by  those  who  had  not  heard  them.  When  a 
woman  is  going  to  bear  a  baby,  the  doctor  says  she 
is  pregnant ;  the  lower  middle-class  speaks  of  her  as 
enceinte  (an&  pronounces  the  word  wrongly)  ;  the 
monthly  nurse  aUudes  to  her  as  in  the  family  way ; 

57 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

a  stone-breaker  once  told  me,  simply  and  beautifully, 
that  his  wife  was  with  child. 


ON  the  face  of  the  low  granite  cliff,  that  buttressed  a 
sheaf  ol  young  oak-trees,  I  saw  the  patient  beauty 
of  a  caryatid,  for  ever  holding  up  treasiu"es  more  lovely 
than  she,  that  yet  depended  for  their  safety  on  her 
sleepless  service.  But  my  companion  valued  the  placid 
face  of  the  rock  for  itself,  because  it  was  unfretted  with 
detail  and  offered  fine,  tranquil  planes  for  movement 
of  hght  and  shadow. 

Thus  two  men  may  love  the  same  girl  and  yet  love 
different  girls,  since  she  is  a  different  girl  in  the  eyes  of 
each.  The  man  who  sees  the  vital  things  may  win  her  ; 
but  she  is  far  more  likely  to  love  the  man  who  does 
not  see  the  vital  things.  Yet  who  can  name  the  vital 
things  that  will  ensure  happiness  with  a  Hfe's  partner  ? 
To  judge,  you  must  know  the  characters  of  both  man 
and  woman,  and  also  allow  for  their  reaction. 


IT  is  interesting  to  note  how  most  art  lovers  and 
critics  are  town-bred  and  town-minded.  They 
reck  little  of  the  stuff  from  which  so  much  that  they 
treasure    springs.     Of    painters,    Turner    and    Girtin, 

58 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

Whistler  and  Monet  may  be  a  part  of  their  aesthetic 
life  ;  but  bid  them  rise  before  dawn  to  see  a  winter 
sunrise  ;  make  them  tramp  a  scorching  summer  wlder- 
ness  at  noon  ;  drive  them  to  sweat  for  their  beauty, 
freeze  for  it,  drown  for  it,  go  hungry  and  thirsty  for  it, 
lessen  their  vitality  for  it,  and  they  would  rebel.  They 
are  concerned  with  the  artist's  revelation,  not  the  thing 
itself,  and  this  second-hand  attitude  breeds  a  bad  con- 
sequence, because  an  urban  critic  of  rural  painting,  or 
fiction,  is  ignorant  whether  the  work  of  art  be  right  in 
its  vitals. 

He  often  praises  falsehood,  or  censures  truth  as  a 
result  of  this  ignorance,  and  especially  is  he  apt  to 
mistake  realism  for  reality.  Because  a  thing  is  grim, 
hideous  and  brutal,  it  does  not  in  the  least  foUow  that  it 
is  true,  any  more  than  it  need  be  false  because  cheerful, 
humorous  and  sweet. 

Distinction,  selection,  form,  style,  technique — all  are 
vain  if  squandered  on  an  intrinsic  lie  ;  and  that  holds 
good  despite  Nietzsche's  aphorism.  He  says  :  "  Art  is 
with  us  that  we  shall  not  perish  of  too  much  truth  "  ; 
but  there  is  no  fear  of  any  such  surfeit.  Truth  is  a 
rare  bird  still — so  rare  that  few  recognise  it  even  if  the 
artist  show  it  to  them. 

¥^ 

THE  great,  solitary  rowan-tree  did  much  good,  for 
it  gave  a  welcome  shade  to   the  cattle   and  the 
traveller ;   it  broke  the  Une  of  the  level  fiat  gratefully, 

59 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

it  offered  pleasure  to  the  eye  at  bud-break  and  sparkled 
with  bunches  of  scarlet  fruit  in  the  autumn,  which  both 
gladdened  the  spectator  and  fed  the  missel- thrushes. 
But  the  good  it  did  was  all  in  the  day's  work  and  came 
of  no  effort,  no  self-denial.  The  mountain  ash  was  in- 
tent on  his  own  business  and  prosperity  alone. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  good  that  most  of  us  do.  We 
take  it  in  our  stride  and  never  seek  the  opportunity 
till  it  challenges  us.  Then  we  fume  a  little  and  either 
shirk  the  fence,  or  hop  over.  And,  for  the  largest- 
hearted  of  us,  what  is  the  word  we  write  most  often  in 
our  cheque-books  ?     "  Self." 

Men  recollect  their  good  deeds  readily  enough  ;  yet 
those  who  can,  have  not  many  to  bless  themselves 
with.  "  He  that  gives  should  never  remember  ;  he 
that  receives  should  never  forget,"  says  the  Talmud — 
an  ordinance  of  no  wide  observance,  for  human  nature 
tends  to  the  contrary. 

n> 

MEETING  a  stranger  at  luncheon,  he  asked  me 
whether  I  knew  Dartmoor.  I  answered  :  "  Not 
as  well  as  I  could  wish."  Whereupon  he  told  me  that 
once  he  had  motored  across  it.  "  Hardly  a  thing  you'd 
do  twice,  certainly,"  he  confessed.  I  told  him  to  try 
walking  across  it  and  the  advice  amused  him.  "  Surely 
no  sane  man  would  waste  his  time  hke  that,"  he  declared. 
Concerning  fiction,  this  barbaric  person  explained 
that  he  never  read  novels,  "  because  they  were  all  Ues  "  ; 

60 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

and  when  I  inquired  if  the  same  objection  prevented 
him  from  looking  at  pictures  and  statues,  he  said : 
"  No  ;  such  things  are  worth  money  if  they  have  been 
made  by  celebrities." 

He  was  most  entertaining  and  owned  coal  mines ; 
but  art  had  been  left  out  of  him — a  misfortune  that 
may  overtake  people  who  own  coal  mines.  The  wealthy 
and  the  poverty-stricken  are  in  like  case  :  both  are  too 
preoccupied  with  finance  to  use  time  to  better  purpose. 
Perhaps  that  is  a  sound  argument  for  sweeping  both 
classes  away, 

FROM  a  great  southern  tor  by  night  you  can  see  a 
beam  flashing  over  the  Eddystone  ;  and  by  day 
battleships,  swinging  in  Plymouth  Sound,  adjust  their 
compasses  with  the  aid  of  this  steadfast  hill.  In  its 
heart  is  the  Pixies'  Cave,  where  a  famous  Devon  cavalier 
hid  from  Cromwell's  Ironsides.  It  links  ancient  with 
modern  romance  and  serves  the  last  '  Dreadnought '  as 
willingly  as  it  helped  the  soldier  of  King  Charles  to 
escape  his  foe,  and  me  to  write  The  Virgin  in  Judgment. 


rb 


How  reasonable  is  all  that  one  can  appreciate  in 
these    high    places.     Everything   proceeds   stead- 
fastly from  cause  to  effect ;  everything  is  governed  and 

6i 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

controlled ;  and  in  the  measure  of  our  own  reason,  so 
we  perceive  the  inexorable  procedure  and  consent  to 
enforced  conditions.  The  conditions  themselves  spring 
reasonably  from  remoter  causes  and  the  balance  hangs 
true.  Only  we  reasoning  creatures  are  irrational  and 
deride  our  supreme  gift.  The  talk  is  of  perishing  faith, 
and  reason  answers  that  sooner  will  the  principles  of 
gravitation  and  evolution  perish  than  faith.  Faith  is 
a  permanent  and  vital  endowment  of  the  human  mind — 
a  part  of  reason  itself.   The  insane  alone  are  without  it. 

We  all  back  something,  if  only  ourselves,  and  a  man 
can  no  more  disbelieve  in  everything  than  he  can  believe 
in  opposites.  Agnosticism  is  faith  in  the  suspended 
judgment ;  atheism  is  faith  that  existence  depends 
upon  the  properties  of  matter  and  not  the  purposes  of 
conscious  Will.  The  faith  of  those  who  acknowledge 
a  revealed  religion  is  founded  on  a  Supreme  Being  and 
His  intention  ;  the  faith  of  most  free-thinkers  rests 
in  a  con\'iction  that  the  possibilities  latent  in  human 
reason  suffice  for  right  human  progress.  They  do  not 
pretend  to  know  where  reason  will  bring  us  ;  but  they 
affirm,  since  the  evolution  of  morals  is  upward  and 
towards  righteousness,  that  reason  may  be  trusted 
above  any  other  guide.  They  believe  that,  had  the 
world  been  governed  by  reason,  the  present  disaster 
had  not  fallen  upon  it. 

Yet  archaic  minds  still  argue  that  war  must  be  a 
static  institution  for  reasonable  beings.  No  ;  Reason 
will  inevitably  banish  it  off  the  earth,  when  she  wins  the 
power,  for  it  is  contrary  to  reason  and  nature  also  that 

62 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

the  elder  generations  should  slaughter  the  younger  of 
their  own  species. 


I  LIKE  to  believe  that  Keats  stood  by  some  of  the 
old  grey  circles  scattered  on  the  Moor,  to  mark  the 
stone  man's  meeting-places.  Whether  these  signs  were 
set  for  sacrifice  to  gods,  or  the  concourse  of  the  people's 
parliaments,  we  know  not ;  but  still  they  stand  in 
lonely  places,  to  challenge  the  poet  who  comes  upon 
them. 

And  though  that  familiar  image  in  Hyperion  is 
imputed  to  his  wanderings  in  Cumberland  or  Scotland, 
I  choose  rather  to  think  that  a  Dartmoor  monument 
inspired  Keats.  For  the  poem  was  published  in  1820, 
after  his  sojourn  at  Teignmouth,  and  he  never  looked 
up  to  the  girth  of  Heytor,  the  steep  of  Lastleigh,  or  the 
crown  of  huge  Rippon  without  seeking  to  climb  them 
and  penetrate  what  lay  within  those  oorder  heights. 
Surely  his  eyes  brooded  over  the  wilderness  and  flashed 
at  many  visions  hidden  from  us.  But  why  did  he 
despise  the  Devon  folk  so  heartily  ?  I  have  often 
wondered  what  offence  awoke  this  contempt. 


l?b 


THERE  are  rare  moments  when  the  golden  link  of 
all  matter   seems  visible   and  we  forget   our  in- 
significance and  feel  a  part  appreciable  of  the  splendid 

63 


.     A  SHADOW  PASSES 

whole.  The  air  we  breathe  is  the  same  that  burns  in 
glory  under  the  sun  ;  the  water  and  the  lime  that  build 
our  delicate  bodies  are  also  in  the  precipices  and  palaces 
of  the  summer  clouds  and  the  bones  of  the  land  beneath 
our  feet.  On  such  days  we  claim  kinship  with  the 
elements  and  share  their  life  and  greatness  and  justifica- 
tion. They  are  festivals  of  all  earth's  thanksgiving  and 
their  lyric  hymn  throbs  from  the  harp  of  a  mighty 
minstrel,  for  it  is  the  anthem  of  the  rapture  of  life. 


15, 


THE  Moor  was  mist-laden  and  colourless.  The 
children  of  sunshine  slept  while  nature  worked  in 
black  and  white,  and  every  shade  of  pearl,  cobweb  and 
sulky  lead  went  to  her  autumn  picture.  The  dim 
outhnes  of  the  hills  and  the  silver  birches  ;  the  granite 
and  the  bramble  with  grey  under-leaves  brushed  up 
by  the  wind ;  the  river  and  rock  and  the  withered 
thistle  hanging  over  them  ;  the  flying  seeds  and  dead 
heather  blossom — all  these  developed  the  harmony 
from  which  colour  seemed  to  be  so  cunningly  abstracted. 
In  the  woods  the  grey  lichen  and  the  grey  boughs  were 
paramount.  Unconsidered  incident  piessed  upon  you 
— unguessed  congruities  in  the  passing  of  those  things 
whose  funerals  know  no  pomp  and  whose  palls  are  silver 
and  sere.  A  grey  day  reveals  the  inner  texture  of 
nature's  robe  and  those  soft  fabrics  that  cling  close  to 
her  heart  and  hide  her  bosom. 

64 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

^]'ATURE'S  cult  is  above  all  things  reasonable  and 
S  thus  fulfils  the  conditions  of  a  good  working  faith. 
Much  is  hidden  ;  much  is  lucid  and  practical.  Mystery 
does  not  lack,  for  there  are  many  holies  where  no  foot 
has  trodden  ;  but  the  rudiments  are  plain,  and  first 
appears  the  necessity  for  obedience.  Break  the  law 
and  the  law  will  break  you. 

Her  outworn  creeds  fall  like  the  flower,  whose  seed, 
set  from  better  pollen  than  its  own,  will  lift  the  next 
generation  into  nobler  beauty  than  we  shall  see  and 
furnish  richer  and  sweeter  fruit  than  we  shall  taste. 
Her  impulse  is  onward.  Nothing  to  her  is  an  end  in 
itself  ;  everything  is  a  beginning  for  something  else. 
Only  give  her  time  ;  she  is  not  weary  ;  her  laws  have 
not  fulfilled  themselves  ;  they  justify  full  faith  in  the 
destiny  of  our  heirs  and  generous  trust  in  the  future. 


*52 


HOPE  beckons  from  the  days  to  come,  and  who  but 
can  take  joy  in  that  march  forward  ?  Our  feet 
loiter  long  by  the  way  and  turn  back  to  evil  paths  again  ; 
but  nature's  pressure  is  ceaseless  :  she  leads  us  onward 
from  the  jungles  of  the  ape  and  tiger  to  the  uplands, 
where  Reason,  also,  shall  have  a  place  in  the  sun. 

We  are  as  much  a  part  of  the  immemorial  plan  as  the 
Galaxy  ;  we  are  the  links  in  an  eternal  chain,  and  our 
part  is  neither  to  mourn  the  prevalent  pattern,  nor  un- 
duly to  glorify  it,  but  keep  the  personal  link  free  from 

65 


A  SHADOW  PASSES 

rust,  that  it  may  sustain  its  proper  strain  in  the  world 
order. 

So  shall  there  steal  into  life,  peace  and  patience  and 
that  "  quiet  unity  which  alone  can  compress  any 
achievement  into  the  few  human  years." 


RETURNING  from  Switzerland,  I  lifted  my  eyes  for 
the  first  glimpse  of  Dartmoor,  in  cheerful  expecta- 
tion of  her  crowns  and  turrets.  They  were  gone  and 
only  a  grey  sky  met  me.  Then  looking  far,  far  beneath 
the  clouds,  I  found  my  tors,  shrunk  to  molehills  upon 
the  level  heart  of  little  Devon. 

But  their  heights  shall  still  pierce  the  sky  for  me, 
their  lights  still  gleam,  their  shadows  still  hold  good 
things ;  their  songs  and  silences  still  utter  the  best 
music  I  can  hear.  For  they  have  earned  the  right  to 
beguile  me. 

There  are  some  illusions  not  to  be  surrendered  even 
though  the  effort  is  heroic  that  preserves  them  ;  while 
to  others  we  cannot  bid  farewell  if  we  would. 

Quarrel  with  no  man's  dreams,  for  what  you  cherish 
in  him  may  haply  spring  from  them  alone. 


66 


Song  of  the  Shadow 

A  SHADOW  passes 
Over  the  grasses, 
Alike  in  tune 
With  the  sun  or  moon. 

By  hill  and  vale, 
High  heath  and  dale. 
For  a  brief  day 
He  pursues  his  way. 

And  then  no  more. 
Upon  the  hoar 
And  ancient  place, 
Can  he  show  his  face. 

But  wiser  shades 
Will  haunt  these  glades 
And  meditate 
Trulier  on  Fate. 

Knowing  to  glean 

From  each  steadfast  scene, 

A  living  rede 

For  our  human  need. 


THE  END 


sm 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


ill _ 

A  A  001  424  447  j 


